


If I Could Follow (I Would, I Would)

by kuragay



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, I'll write a fix-it someday but rn i just need to cry, Not A Fix-It, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 10:15:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18776233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuragay/pseuds/kuragay
Summary: Peter Parker + the three times he grieves.





	If I Could Follow (I Would, I Would)

**Author's Note:**

> The new ffh trailer ripped out my heart and called me a lil bitch so I wrote this fic through my tears.

When Peter is six, his parents drop him off at May and Ben’s house with the promise to be back next week.

“Be good for your aunt and uncle, okay baby?”

Peter nods, leaning up as his mom kisses his forehead and ruffles his hair. His hand is transferred from his mom’s to May’s, but he grips it all the same, letting May rub soothing circles into his tiny palms.

“Bye, Petey,” his dad says, pressing a firm hand into Peter’s shoulder, and Peter nods.

“I’ll miss you.” He looks up at his parents with a toothy grin, and Ben comes up behind him to give his brother a hug.

“Have a safe trip, and don’t worry too much. We’ll take good care of Pete.”

“You guys always do,” Peter’s mom says, smiling gratefully. “We know to always count on you.” Then she bends down so that she’s eye to eye with Peter and brushes a stray curl from his face. She pinches his cheeks and lightly kisses his nose, grinning when he giggles at the tickle.

“I love you lots.”

“I love you to the moon and back,” Peter counters, and his mom laughs.

“Oh, lil’ man, I think I love you even more.”

“Nuh uh.”

“Uh huh.”

“No way.”

“Yes way.”

Before Peter can say more, she stands up, stepping back outside the door with Peter’s dad.

“You have his inhaler, right?” His dad asks Ben, and Ben nods.

“Of course. We won’t leave home without it.”

A tension in Peter’s dad’s shoulders relax, and he nods. “Thanks again.” To Peter, he says, “We’ll be back before you know it,” then leans down and, like his mom, kisses his forehead.

“Bye bye,” Peter says as they walk down the hall to the elevator, and they both turn back to wave at him, his mother’s constant smile a reassurance in Peter’s gut.

When they leave, Peter doesn’t think much about it, too young to even understand what a business trip really is. Instead, he turns to May and Ben and jumps into Ben’s outstretched arms, laughing when Ben lets out an “oof” and pretends to stumble back.

“Can we have pizza for dinner?”

May rolls her eyes, taking Peter from Ben’s arms. “I don’t think so.”

He bounces, shifting around until they’re face to face and peers into May’s eyes with his own. “Please?”

“You’re a growing boy,” May says. “You need a balanced meal.”

Peter pouts, kicking his legs around in the air half-heartedly. “But May, you can’t even cook.”

May’s face does something funny, her eyebrows scrunching up, but when Ben snorts out a laugh, so does she.

“It’s not funny.” She swats at Ben with one arm, the other still carrying Peter, but Ben only laughs harder.

His head tilting to the side, Peter peers up at May and Ben, mouth parting. “Did I say something?” May’s chest is shaking as her laughs taper off, and she sweeps a finger gently down Peter’s cheek.

“You’re the funniest person I know, Pete. Don’t you ever change.”

They don’t have pizza for dinner though. Instead, Ben stir-fries vegetables and chicken, and steams rice, letting Peter play with the grains as they rinse them. At night, they watch Mulan, and after the movie, Peter turns to May and Ben and says, dead serious, “I wanna be like Mulan when I grow up.”

Because she’s brave, and she keeps fighting even when people don’t believe in her. Peter wants to be like that too, and he falls asleep with the sound track playing in his head.

The rest of the week doesn’t pass much differently. He goes to school, comes home, helps Ben and May make dinner, and picks a different movie.

On Tuesday night, when his parents are supposed to come pick him up, they don’t show up. May calls, then Ben calls, but no one answers. On the news, they play footage of a devastating airplane crash, and then May’s crying, and Ben’s crying, and then the police show up in the apartment with some strange people who call themselves social services and Peter doesn’t understand.

He tugs on May’s shirt, hiding behind her leg when a strange lady tries to talk to him, and May has to bend down to scoop him up because he’s starting to panic.

“Where’s mommy and daddy?” he asks, and May’s lips wobble. When she cries, Peter starts to cry too, tears clouding everything up. He sniffles, sucking in a breath, and then cries some more when he lets it out. “Where are they?” he asks again.

“Hey, Pete.” Ben comes into Peter’s swimming vision, a hand gently touching his arm. “Hey, Pete. Something bad happened, and you’re gonna be staying with us now, okay?”

He shakes his head, avoiding Ben’s grip, and cries harder. “I want mommy and daddy!”

Ben’s expression crumples, and he wipes at Peter’s tears until his sobs have calmed to tiny hitches, then presses his face to Peter’s shoulder. “I know. I know, buddy, but they’re not here anymore.”

Peter notices that Ben’s eyes are red, that May’s still crying, and the strange lady and the police officers aren’t leaving, and he says, very quietly, “Are they dead?” Because Peter is young, but he’s always been a bit too sharp.

Ben freezes for a second, looking like he’s been shocked with a taser, but slowly he nods, and Peter starts to cry even harder.

He doesn’t understand the concept of death _—_ not really. But as the weeks go by and his parents are still gone, he begins to understand a little better. At first, it’s like something’s missing. He’ll want his parents next to him, but they won’t be there. He’ll be at school and he’ll want his mom, or he’ll be lying in bed and he’ll miss his mom and dad so much that he aches.

He aches to be held by them, and May will come into his room and hold him, and Ben will warm him a glass of milk, and he’ll feel a little better.

He wets the bed. He cries at school. His teachers are too nice to him and he has to talk with someone every wednesday who gives him chocolate and lets him draw and asks him how he’s feeling.

And over time, he heals, but he also forgets. That’s the worst part, Peter thinks _—_ the forgetting. He grows, and he only really remembers his parents from pictures. There are flashes of memories, some vivid and some muted, and grief presses into him like an old sponge, but at the end of the day, May and Ben have been with him through thick and thin, and he loves them as if they’re his parents.

By the time he’s thirteen, he only has wisps of his parents to hold onto, but he clutches them like a lifeline. He has a picture of all three of them on his desk, right next to the picture of him and May and Ben at his last year’s science fair, when he won first place. In the photo, his dad is piggy-backing him, and his mom is laughing at the side, blurry. It’s Peter’s favourite picture of his parents, even though he has two albums full, and he wonders if it’ll ever stop bothering him that his memories of them are from paper.

-

Peter’s bad luck with field trips begins when he’s 14, touring an Oscorp facility with his biology class. Somehow, some way, a radioactive spider goes loose and decides that its snack of the day will be Peter.

So yeah, bad luck.

Peter’s bedridden for a week, and for a hot second, May and Ben seem genuinely concerned he’s going to die, but the day they decide they’re going to take him to the emergency room, he miraculously can breathe again.

He doesn’t sway when he stands, he puts on his glasses and realizes that the world’s so much clearer without them, and accidentally gets stuck on the ceiling. By the time he finally manages to come down, he can barely breathe again, but this time it’s not because he’s deathly ill _—_ it’s because he’s fucking panicking. He can hear May and Ben talking crisp and clear as if they’re next to him. He can hear his neighbour arguing with her dog. He can hear his heartbeat roaring in his ears, and then, a little quieter, two other heartbeats. _May and Ben’s._ Everything is sharper, more painful, and even his softest blankets are too rough on his skin, but he’s too cold without them. That night, he sleeps with ear plugs.

After his bio lab the next day, he puts his hand under a microscope and sees tiny setules lining his palms. He breathes, concentrates, and they retract. Cool. Freaky, but cool. He’s pretty sure actual spiders can’t make them retract like cat claws, but Peter’s not exactly 100% arachnid.

“Holy shit,” he mutters under his breath before cleaning his station up, and he wonders what else he can do, which is promptly answered as he breaks his front door knob the moment he gets home.

“It must’ve been old,” Ben mutters as Peter fixes the knob because in their family, only Peter really knows how to fix things.

“Yeah, probably,” Peter says, guilt gnawing at his ribs as he finishes attaching the knob, and he swallows hard. “Everything has a due date.”

“That they do.”

So super strength. Okay. And more muscles. Although, unfortunately, they don’t make him look any bigger. He pouts a little at that, but he’s never cared much about how he looks, so he lets it go. He’s never been big or scary or liked. He’s always just tried to blend in, but somehow still becomes a target because he’s smart, and even at a stem school, being smarter than others gets you in trouble. But only with Flash. No one else really cares about Peter’s intellect or how nerdy he is.

Peter could totally get Flash to leave him alone now. He could, but he shouldn’t. But he still really really wants to. The contrast of what he wants to do versus wants he should do gives him a headache, and it makes him moody. He can’t deal with chemistry despite it being one of his favourite subjects, so he ditches class and runs across rooftops until an old man sees him and threatens to call the cops, after which he climbs through his bedroom window and waits until Ben and May get home.

He doesn’t think anyone really notices until, at dinner, Ben looks at him weirdly and says, “Your school called.”

Peter pauses eating and looks up. “About what?”

“About you not showing up for your last block.”

“Oh.” Peter picks at his food and shrugs, biting his lip. “It’s not like we were learning anything I didn’t already know.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, and Peter knows it before Ben even sighs. “Pete.”

His fork clangs onto the plate, and Peter stands up. “Thanks for the meal. I’m tired now and I think I’m gonna do homework and sleep _—_ ”

“Pete, sit down.”

Peter sits. He deliberately turns from May when she looks at him because she always gets him to crack the hardest.

“Pete, what’s wrong?” She asks, and he curls into himself, letting his chin rest on his knees.

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

“You’re clearly not.” Ben doesn’t have May’s gentleness, and it makes Peter immediately want to clam up harder. “You’re gonna tell me what the hell has been going on with you right now. It’s not just today. It’s been all week. You’ve been snappy and frankly just rude.”

Peter’s been trying to hard to be good despite the influx of feeling and sounds and everything, and he’s so frustrated that Ben and May can’t understand. Because it’s ridiculous. Because people like the Hulk or Captain America or Thor get superpowers. Not some small teenager in Queens.

“I’m trying my best,” Peter mumbles, mouth pressed into his pants, and Ben sighs again.

“Not good enough, Pete. You gotta give us something to work with.” Then, gentler, Ben says, “We love you.”

Peter can feel the tears burning, and he hates his vulnerability. He stands up, pushing his chair back, and slips his shoes on.

“Where are you going?” May asks, standing up too, but Peter turns so abruptly that she stops in her tracks.

“You guys only love me because you’re obligated to. Because I was a sad orphan and someone had to take me in.”

May startles, and Ben’s mouth presses into a thin line. “Peter Benjamin Parker, you know that’s not true,” he says, his voice ringing in the silence, stern and unyielding, and Peter can’t deal with it.

He wipes roughly at his eyes and digs his sleeves under his nose before rushing out the door, slamming it hard enough behind him that he swears the frame cracks.

“Peter!” Ben calls after him, but he’s already running down the stairs, ignoring Ben’s pounding steps.

“Peter Parker, you get your ass back here _right now!_ ”

Peter slips away onto the streets, drawing his hoodie up as the chill hits him. They don’t live in the best neighbourhood, but they get by. Still, as Peter walks by a convenience store, he doesn’t expect to see someone waving a gun.

He freezes, and by the time he realizes he should get the fuck away, he’s been seen by both the victim and the perpetrator.

 _Help,_ the guy behind the counter mouths, and Peter takes out his phone, thinking he should probably call 911, but the gun is suddenly pointed through the window at him and his hand drops to his side.

It’s so cold outside. Peter’s entire body shakes, but he doesn’t know if it’s from fear or the freezing wind, and he thinks that he might actually get shot right now, and his last words to Ben and May were about how they don’t actually love him, which he knows to be untrue.

But then Ben Parker is next to Peter, breathing hard, sweat down his face, and he takes one look at the gun, shouts “Stay!” to Peter, and sprints into the store.

He tackles the gunman to the ground, out of Peter’s vision, and Peter takes his phone back out to dial 911, and just as he hits call, a _bang_ erupts so deafening and sudden that Peter cries out and drops his phone, covering his ears.

“Ben?” he calls after the ringing stops, realization sinking in, and he makes his way into the store, the bell jingling sadly above him. “Ben?”

The guy behind the counter is crouched down, hiding, his face ashen, and Peter turns just as the gunman slams into Peter in his hurry to get away.

“Hey, stop!” Peter calls, but his voice is small and wobbly, and the gunman doesn’t even glance back, and Peter can’t worry about him because he turns to look at Ben, and Ben’s on the ground, not moving.

“Ben?” Blood is spreading across the floor, and Peter crouches down as if in a trance, pressing his hands into Ben’s soaked chest.

A grunt, and Ben’s hand touches Peter’s knees weakly, and Peter feels the sob come through like a wave, ripping him out of his apathy, forcing his chest to part for the pain.

“I love you. So much,” Ben strains, sirens miles away beginning to fill the static inside Peter’s head.

Peter’s hands are coated in red. “I know,” he cries, pressing his face against Ben’s neck, feeling snot dribble down his lips. “I know. I love you too,” he chokes, “ _so much.”_

“To the moon and back.”

“I’m so _sorry.”_

“Things are gonna work out, Pete.”

“I’m _sorry.”_

“You’re going to be okay.”

By the time the cops get there, Ben’s body has slackened completely, pale and still, and Peter’s left there with his hands dripping and his eyes so blinded by tears that he can’t stand up.

“Honey, I’ve got you. You’re okay.” A police officer forces him off the ground and wraps a blanket around him, and Peter just wants Ben to get up, to hold him, to tell him he loves him one last time.

The devastation on May’s face when the police bring Peter back to her will forever be etched into his mind. She sobs, ugly and heartbroken, and collects Peter towards her as if he’s the only part of her heart left. She holds him tightly enough that he feels anchored for the first time in weeks, and more tears squeeze out of his body until the noises he’s making barely sound human.

He keeps apologizing, and he doesn’t know why.

-

Moving on is difficult. Ned sticks by Peter’s side like super glue, either inviting Peter over to his house or heading over to Peter’s. The first couple months after Ben’s death, Peter’s not really all there, but Ned still gets out new lego sets and builds most of it as Peter sits by and stares as the floor, fiddling with the occasional piece.

On the especially bad days, Peter digs through Ben’s closet and finds the biggest, softest sweater, puts it on, and then curls up in bed and cries before heading to school. Flash leaves him alone for awhile, and the teachers let him get away with maybe too much.

He sleeps in class, cries in washrooms, and sometimes, sporadically, will burst into tears. People like drama, but after Ned almost punches someone for asking Peter how his uncle died, people stop caring as much.

Life continues, and Peter will still crawl into Ben’s sweaters, but he’ll also start handing in homework, and he’ll engage with Ned more.

And if he also starts sneaking out at night to sit on roofs and cry, and then to swing around Queens to stop petty crimes, no one has to know. He hates guns _—_ he probably always will. But he’s not scared of them anymore. He has responsabilites now, and he knows it’s what Ben would’ve wanted. Ben would’ve wanted him to be brave, and selfless, and to save lives.

He gets cats from trees, finds lost dogs and return them to their families, and walks old ladies down the streets. But he also walks young girls home at night and punches rapists and pedophiles and webs muggers to walls.

On a particularly bad night, Peter ends up not crawling back into his room until 5 a.m., drained and hurting. He’s not thinking straight when he opens Ben’s closet, the old clothes dusty and losing their Ben scent. Still, he climbs inside, yanking the clothes off hangers until he’s completely covered, and curls up with his arms wrapped around his legs, knees to his chin. He cries and doesn’t realize he passes out until May finds him two hours later, bending down to run a shaky hand through Peter’s hair.

“Are you okay?” She asks when Peter’s eyes peek out from the pile of clothes, and Peter shakes his head, his heart in his throat. She helps him out from the clothes and calls both of them in sick, then she warms a glass of milk and grabs the thickest blankets in the house, curling up with Peter on the couch. They watch movies until the sun goes down, and Peter feels a little better.

-

It’s stupid, but he starts wearing his Iron Man helmet around the house. It’s the same Iron Man mask Ben got him when they attended the Stark Expo _—_ the one with the Hammer Drones, where Tony Stark saved Peter’s life ( _nice work, kid)._

It helps, the helmet. He can put it on and pretend he’s Iron Man. That he’s rich, and powerful, and has overcome every shitty thing life has thrown his way. Because reality isn’t as kind to Peter, and Spider-Man is nothing like Iron Man, and Peter is nothing like Spider-Man. But he wants to be. He wants to be like Spider-Man, and he wishes Spider-Man could be as brave and Iron Man.

So he wears the ridiculous, clunky helmet, and May indulges him, although she can’t quite hide her pursed lips when he heads to bed with it still on.

“I miss seeing your face,” she says one evening as they sit on the couch, so Peter takes the helmet off and leans his head onto her shoulder. She gently touches his nose, his cheeks, her eyes wide and sad, and she runs a hand messily through Peter’s sweaty hair.

“It makes me feel braver,” Peter admits, voice small, and May smiles gently.

“Baby,” she tucks Peter against her, and he breathes, listening to her steady heartbeat.  “You’re already the bravest person I know.”

-

The day Tony Stark shows up in Peter’s apartment with a proposition (a demand) to take him to Germany, Peter puts the dumb Iron Man helmet into the back of his closet and decides that he could never live up the real thing anyway, and that he has May and Ned and other people who love him, and he doesn’t need the helmet to feel brave.

Mr. Stark is distant, distracted. His eyes are tired and frustrated, the lines on his face deeper than Peter’s used to seeing on TV, and Peter just wants to help.

And although Peter doesn’t see it coming, Mr. Stark becomes a permanent figure in his life. After Toomes, Peter starts heading over to the compound regularly, or Mr. Stark will pay a visit to their apartment, and they have dinner or lunch or brunch together almost every week. Mr. Stark helps him modify a car, and Dum-E follows them around the lab, almost rolling over Peter’s feet three times in the span of ten minutes, and a hole that Ben left behind starts to mend.

Mr. Stark is not, and will never be, a replacement for Ben. But he’s a pillar of support for Peter, an adult male figure Peter can look up to. And he’s become, well, parental. Peter knows he can trust Mr. Stark and he hopes Mr. Stark trusts him too.

The more time Peter spends with Mr. Stark, the more he realizes that Mr. Stark seems happier, and he’s made painfully aware of how close he’s become with both Mr. Stark and Pepper when Pepper lets Peter help pick her wedding dress.

“You can’t tell Tony,” she says, and Peter nods rapidly.

“Ms. Potts, I won’t disappoint you.”

Her eyes melt, and she places a gentle hand on Peter’s back, guiding him to the mirror.

“How do I look?”

Her gown is long-sleeved, lace covering her from shoulder to wrist, her train flowing behind her like a cape.

Peter stares at her in awe and says, “You need a veil.”

Pepper laughs, and shortly after, her hair is put up with some clips and the veil is pinned into place and, “Oh my god, Ms. Potts, you’re so far out of Mr. Stark’s league.”

Pepper laughs again, but this time she doesn’t stop until she’s crying, and Peter feels so, so loved.

-

Mr. Stark makes Peter help him pick out a suit even though Peter knows nothing about suits. Still, “All of them are ugly,” Peter says, and Tony stops, looks over, and raises an eyebrow.

“Why did I bring you if you’re just gonna say shit like that?”

Peter shrugs. “See, I don’t know. But if you wear that suit, Pepper’s going to leave you at the altar.”

Mr. Stark must decide that Peter’s right because they try a different store, or actually, six different stores. Mr. Stark keeps careful contact with Peter the entire time _—_ a hand on his shoulder, on his back, on his wrist. It’s like he’s scared Peter’s going to walk away, but he would never do that.

He love Mr. Stark too much to make him try suits on alone.

“I’m gonna punch Rhodey for being unavailable today. Your fashion sense is nonexistent.”

Peter looks like as his oversized sweater, jeans, and ratty shoes, and decides that his fashion sense isn’t as bad as Mr. Stark says. “I’m comfortable.”

He doesn’t know why, but Mr. Stark’s face suddenly does something strange before his lips tilt up in a small smile. “Yeah kid.” He pulls Peter to his side, and Peter feels starved for affection, immediately tucking himself close. “Always stay the same.”

“Ms. Potts didn’t take this long to find a dress,” Peter brings up once they’ve been out for eight hours, and Tony’s mouth drops open.

“Pepper let you help?”

“I wasn’t supposed to say, but watching you fret over this is painful. Mr. Stark, you know I was joking when I said she would leave you at the altar, right? Ms. Potts would marry you if you walked out naked with a paper bag over your head.”

“Did she say that?”

“No, but it’s obvious, and you’re stupid.”

Mr. Stark’s vulnerability is new, but Peter likes seeing it. The media spits Mr. Stark’s image out like he’s two dimensional, but Peter has always like the man beneath the mask, the man who took Peter under his wing, the man who makes sure Peter’s doing alright.

“You’re gonna be fine.”

-

But as it turns out, Peter never makes it to the wedding because of the aliens, then Titan, then Thanos, then the fear when everyone starts to turn to dust around them.

He feels it coming, but he can’t stop it, and that scares him the most. So he cries, like a baby in Mr. Stark’s arms, and feels himself give up, and he thinks that this is it. He’s dying.

Then he wakes up.

He wakes up with hot wind blowing dust and sand into his face, dirt digging under her nails, and Dr. Strange pulling Peter up with a glint in his eyes.

“They did it.”

“What?” Peter asks, looking around. “Where’s Mr. Stark?” The place that Mr. Stark occupied by Peter’s side is cold, but Dr. Strange only smiles.

Peter doesn’t understand what’s going on. One second he’s fading, and the next he’s awake, but Dr. Strange tells him it’s been five years and _how is that possible?_

But Mr. Stark needs their help, so he lets his confusion fall away and steps into the battlefield once again with his heart fluttering fragilely beneath his bruised ribs. He thinks, _I’m too fucking young for this._

He swings out of the portal into the ruins of the compound, rubble and demolition greeting him in a way he’s never seen. He’s so incredibly out of his depth, but still, Mr. Stark needs him, so he does his best.

Then he sees Mr. Stark again, about to be crushed, and shoots his webs out, and he’s stumbling to Mr. Stark, and _“Holy cow, you will not believe what’s been going on.”_ Mr. Stark looks older, his hair greyer, his smile lines deeper. The five years are catching up to Peter all at once, but Mr. Stark doesn’t let him think about that for too long because he’s looking at Peter like he’s hung the world, like he’s everything wonderful, like he’s not just...Peter Parker. His arms come to collect Peter like he’s bringing him home, and Peter stumbles into Mr. Stark’s chest, eyes closing. Despite the metal separating them, Peter feels warm, the fear that he’s woken up with on Titan briefly dissipating.

Mr. Stark’s arms tighten around him, his grip firm, and Peter melts, his body aching, his heart pounding. “This is nice,” he murmurs, and wishes they never had to let go.

-

He clings to the gauntlet likes it’s his life line because it might as well be. If he lets it go, if he lets it reach Thanos, they all die. So Peter clings, and the ground is exploding around him and he’s _scared, panicked, terrified._ When Peter curls up, he waits to die.

But he doesn’t. The battle continues, the glowing woman flying through the air with the gauntlet tucked under her arm, and Peter, for the first time since Thanos stabbed Mr. Stark on Titan, feels hopeful.

-

But hope is corrosive, and when it blows up, it burns.

-

Mr. Stark is lying there, propped up by chunks of concrete and metal, his head lolling. The panic is crawling up Peter’s spine, gripping him like a vice, and as he drops down next to Mr. Stark, he already knows. (It’s always like this).

Crouching down, he presses his hands to Tony’s body, taking in the ruin of his right side, and sobs. “Hey, Mr. Stark. Can you hear me? It’s Peter.”

Mr. Stark’s no longer looking at Peter with wonder. He’s not looking at Peter at all. He’s eyes are glazed, his mouth parted, and Peter’s heart is falling out of his chest, tumbling into the fractured ground around him.

_Don’t do this to me. Please don’t do this to me._

“We won, Mr. Stark,” he says, breathless, his lips trembling, but Tony doesn’t even blink. “We won, Mr. Stark. We _won.”_

Somehow, this doesn’t feel like winning.

The panic is familiar. This panic is a plane crash, a bullet, a gauntlet. Now, Peter starts crying in earnest, hands shaking violently as he presses them to Mr. Stark’s chest. “You did it sir. _You did it_.”

Mr. Stark breathes, ragged, his heartbeat thrumming in Peter’s ears, so very very fragile, and Peter bows his head, choking on his agony, and feels a hand slide along his shoulders, pulling his away. He resists, clinging to Mr. Stark.

“I’m sorry, Tony," he whispers, his throat made of glass, his fingertips reaching out.

Then he’s dragged away, sobbing, and Pepper whispers soft reassurances beside him, and then she’s crouching down next to Tony and she gets her goodbye while Peter's left with nothing. Gently, Rhodey pulls Peter into a tenuous hug, his hands shaking.

_I can’t do this again._

Tony’s heart skips a beat, flutters, then stops, the soft blue glow of his chest dwindling until there's only darkness under Pepper's shaking palms.

By now, Peter should be used to losing people.

-

Peter’s been to too many funerals in his life. This one might be the worst.

He’s too wrung out to cry, a familiar numbness filling his limbs, and he lets autopilot take control. He knows May’s worried, but she also knows that this is what grief has always done to Peter.

It takes and it takes and Peter’s left empty.

After most of the people leave, Peter finds himself sitting by the water, staring at his distorted reflection as the sun sets.

Footsteps falls behind him, the grass shifts, and someone sits down.

“Hey, kid.”

“Hey,” Peter mumbles, not bothering to turn his head. He’s getting his suit all muddy, but he doesn’t care. He never wants to wear this suit again.

“Morgan and I are gonna get cheeseburgers. You wanna come?”

Peter starts to shake his head, but then he’s trembling and the grief is washing over him again, breaking through the fog. He tries to breathe in, but chokes instead. “I,” he starts, but then a sob cuts through his words and he stumbles. “I don’t even _know_ her.”

Happy pauses, swallowing hard. “Now that you’re back...you have plenty of time to get to know her.”

But Peter only shakes his head harder, digging his fingers into the grass, and stares up at the sky. “Was it worth it?” _Was_ I _worth it?_

Happy places a hand on Peter’s thigh, holding him steady. “You’re always worth it.” ( _Nice work, kid)._

-

_“Everywhere I go, I see his face. I just really miss him.”_

_“Yeah, I miss him too. I don’t think Tony would’ve done what he did if he didn’t know that you were gonna be here after he was gone.”_


End file.
